Be Mine
by Cecilia Green
Summary: Dean's a demon, Cas is burning up, Sam is an emotional wreck, and Meg has somehow found herself resurrected. With time running out for everyone and the angels getting antsy, it seems as if everything's just...gone to Hell.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, readers! Not much demon!Dean in this chapter, but I'm just trying this story out. Be sure to leave a review telling me what you think of it so far, and if you want me to continue. Hope you enjoy :)**

* * *

He didn't come.

_Why_ didn't he come?

Sam looked over the trap, at all the symbols drawn into the concrete floor of the bunker. Everything was right. It was supposed to work. So why didn't anything happen?

"Crowley!" he yelled. He was hiding… That bastard had to be hiding. There was no other explanation. "Crowley, I'm here!" he screamed again. "I'm right here you son of a bitch! Come on!" _Why didn't he COME_?

"Take my soul, Crowley! I don't care. You can take it and you can keep it. Just bring Dean back!" Sam started pacing, his feet making heavy _clunks_ against the floor. Still no answer. "Come ON!" he roared. Suddenly, he heard something shatter beneath him. He looked down.

His shoe had connected with the bowl of herbs and bones required for the summoning. A faint puff of smoke rose from the pentacle. "No. _No_!" Sam whirled around, hands travelling to his head, clawing at his hair.

"No no no no no no no…" Sam knelt down at the pentacle, hands flying over the chalk, fingers trying to collect all the scattered ingredients. "You can't do this!" he said. "You can't take him away again!" Was he even talking to Crowley anymore?

No. He didn't think so. Sam turned his gaze to the ceiling, but he was looking for something beyond that. "Not again…" he choked out. He just now started to feel the hot tears running down his cheeks.

He let his head fall again, his shoulders drop. It was too much. Everything, all of it, just too much. "Cas…" he said. "Cas, can you hear me?" There was nothing. Just like Crowley. Just like Dean. Still, he could pretend. "Dean's dead, Cas," Sam continued. "Can you do anything? Can you bring him back?"

* * *

Castiel could hear him, but he couldn't do anything about Dean. He barely had enough Grace to heal a paper cut, let alone raise a human from…

Cas closed his eyes. It was hard to think about, but there was only one possibility. If Dean was meant for Heaven, then his soul would still be here, and he would be able to feel it. But there was no trace of Dean Winchester anywhere on Earth. He was most certainly in Hell.

Castiel was in Metatron's office, sitting in the big chair in front of the type writer. He glanced at the archaic-looking machine. It had been kept in amazingly good shape for something so old. It looked like it was from the early 1900s, like the typewriter that Ewan McGregor used in _Moulin Rouge_, while he was –

Stop. No more references. No more stories. Castiel rose from the chair, suddenly disgusted with the knowledge that Metatron had planted in his brain. He wanted it gone. Everything that had anything to do with that bastard, he wanted gone.

Castiel turned back to the desk, eyes travelling to the drawer beneath the typewriter. Very quickly, he looked around the office, though he knew that no angel would come into that office while he was in there. As much as Cas insisted that he did not wish to lead, the angels didn't seem to function that way. Cas found himself remembering when he was that way. Before he met Dean.

Castiel shook the memory from his head. That's not what he needed right now. He opened the drawer slowly, revealing the broken chunks of the angel tablet. He slid his fingers over the runes engraved into the stone. As he did, small rivulets of blue energy swirled up and soaked into his skin. For a moment, warmth bloomed in his chest. But then, it was gone, replaced with the emptiness that had settled inside him as soon as Metatron said those words.

Cas wondered for a briefly why he hadn't informed the other angels that the tablet had not been completely destroyed, but he already knew the answer. If they found out, they would take the tablet away from him, and right now, it was the only thing keeping him from dissolving into heavenly dust. Of course, it was a temporary fix. Without a prophet, the tablet could not be mended, and without the scribe of God, its full power could not be accessed. Cas had no clue where the other prophet was, and he would let himself be burned from the inside out before he went to Metatron for help.

Still, Cas couldn't help but feel a small sliver of guilt for keeping the tablet to himself. It would have been better if it had been destroyed beyond repair, like he had told the other angels. But if it had, then Castiel would be angel dust by now, and they'd have absolutely no hope of reopening the gates of Heaven.

With a sigh, Cas closed the drawer. In all honesty, he had no clue what to do now. Dean was dead, Gadreel was dead, Kevin was dead, and he would die sooner or later. Cas glanced at the double doors in front of him. He couldn't face the other angels. Not now. He flexed his wings and prepared to fly off before he remembered that he couldn't. With the gates closed and his Grace gone, they were nothing but skinny, featherless appendages, weak and trembling. Cas sighed again. They always ached now, his wings. Every movement caused a dull throb to pulse across the skeletal forms. He had learned to get used to the pain over time, but that didn't make them hurt any less.

Looks like he'd have to use the doors. As Cas stepped through the threshold, Hannah turned to face him. She had been standing outside his office since Metatron's incarceration. Honestly, it bugged Cas to no end, but he didn't say anything. He knew she didn't know how to do anything else.

"Is something wrong, Castiel?" she asked.

He looked at her with kind eyes. With patient eyes. The way a father might look on his child. Ironic. "I just need some air, Hannah. You don't need to worry," he said.

"I can go with you," she said eagerly. He knew how she felt. She felt guilty, like she could earn back his trust by offering pointless protection. It was a nice thought, but futile. Cas didn't trust a single one of these angels. They were machines with only one setting: obey. They were only following him now because he was the only one they thought they could turn to.

It wasn't just that Cas didn't want to lead. It was also that he knew he couldn't . There can't be a leader without trust. Castiel only trusted two people in the entire world, and right then, one of them was dead.

So, he shook his head at Hannah. "I'll be fine by myself," he lied. With that, he turned and made his way out of the building. Before long, he found himself sitting on a park bench. The number of times he'd found himself sitting on a park bench, just thinking… It was almost funny. It kind of reminded him of that romantic comedy _500 Days of Summer_, starring Zooey Deschanel and Joseph Gordon–

"Long time, no see, unicorn," came a voice.

Castiel blinked and looked to his right. A woman in her early 30s was sitting next to him. She had brown, wavy hair that fell just passed her shoulders and brown doe-like eyes. He was sure he'd never seen her before, but the snarky smile she gave him was familiar. "Do I know you?" he asked.

The girl feigned shock and scooted a little closer to him on the bench. Cas scooted a little back. "Now that's rude," she said. "I thought the whole 'unicorn' thing would've given it away. I mean sure, different body and all that, but the soul's still the same; or lack thereof, I guess." She looked upward thoughtfully and pursed her full, pink lips. "I guess it's all a matter of perspective."

Realization slowly spread across Castiel's mind. "Meg?" he whispered.

She looked at him once again, a smile finding its way onto her features. "And we have a winner."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: A huge thanks to all of you who read my first chapter. For Meg, I pictured her as being played by Eliza Dushku. If any of you have seen her play Faith in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, that's what I was going for. Here's the next chapter, and I apologize for the shortness. Be sure to write a review telling me what you think, and I'll see you next chapter!**

* * *

"How… how did this happen?" Cas struggled. Now that he knew who she was, it was easier to see it. Ever since the Fall, it was harder for him to identify demons. But Meg was so familiar, he couldn't help but notice some of her little distinctions now. He felt darkness radiating from her, tiny tendrils of black smoke floating up from her pores every now and again that were unique to demons. He squinted at her curiously, a habit he had picked up from Jimmy a long time ago.

"You mean, 'how am I alive right now?'" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "All manner of Hell has been going down since Abaddon became the Big Bad. Some demons got killed, others…" Meg shrugged and flexed her fingers, like a she was trying out a costume that didn't quite fit. "I don't really get much of it myself," she said.

Cas's gaze turned suspicious. "Abaddon raised you?" he asked.

"That's the word," Meg replied nonchalantly, leaning back on the bench.

"So you _worked _for her?" Cas demanded, feeling anger rise up in him.

Meg raised her hands in a defenseless gesture, though the cool half-smile remained on her face. "Hold your pretty horses, Clarence. I never even met the chick." At Castiel's glare, she sighed impatiently. "I never even left Hell until recently. It's chaos down there. You hear the craziest things." At that last sentence, Meg gave Cas a knowing look, though he didn't understand why.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. Before she could answer, Cas stood up, shaking his head. "Never mind. I have bigger problems than you," he said. There was something hard and cold sitting inside his stomach, and talking to Meg wasn't going to make it go away.

As he started to walk away, Meg stood abruptly. "I'm not the problem!" she exclaimed angrily. Castiel ignored her, instead walking across the grass. _I need to find a new park to clear my head in_, he thought. He heard footsteps behind him, hurriedly catching up to him. "I can't believe you!" Meg snarled. "For months, I've been dead. Now I come back to this shitty little world, and this is the welcome I get?"

Cas halted in his tracks and rounded on her. "You are a demon, Meg," he said harshly, "as you like to remind us all. You're not welcome anywhere." He didn't know why he was so angry. He liked Meg…to a certain extent, at least.

She scoffed. "You are so full of it, Castiel," she said. Cas frowned. For whatever reason, it hurt a little bit for her to call him that. "I heard about what you did," Meg continued. "Sealing the gates of Heaven? Stealing another angel's Grace? That's some serious shit you got yourself into." She took a step towards him, her lip curled ever so slightly. "So you just now got out of another one of your messes, and _you're_ preaching to _me_ about righteousness?" She snorted. "That's rich."

Cas's mouth was a thin line. He glared down at Meg, suddenly fuming. "They certainly talk a lot down in Hell," he said.

She met his eyes with equal heat. "They certainly do."

Cas breathed deeply, gathering his thoughts. Arguing wasn't going to achieve anything. Meg was alive, so to speak. That had to mean something. "You wouldn't have come back to Earth unless you had a reason," he said evenly. "And you're not talking to me right now just to say hello. What do you want?"

For a second, Meg's face was stony, her eyes still alight with anger. Then, she smiled. "You're right," she said. "I did want to tell you something. It could have helped, too." She stepped back and shoved her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket. "But I guess I'm not welcome." She turned around, ready to leave.

"You've changed," Castiel said.

Meg looked back at him. "Comes with the new body," she said as she walked away. "It's standard." Meg continued to exit, but paused a few meters away and called back, "When you decide to shed that phony noble-angel disguise, look for me." He could hear her chuckle. "I might even be able to do something useful."

She left then, and Castiel watched the thin trails of dark vapor float off behind her, feeling oddly sad.

* * *

It wasn't death. It was rebirth.

As soon as Dean opened his eyes, everything was clear and sharp, like cut class.

He sat up slowly, clutching the Blade like a man might cling to a lover. As he inhaled, hundreds of smells entered his nostrils. Dust, sweat, smoke, blood. He looked around the room, eying every crack in the wooden doorframe, every speck of chipping paint that clung to the walls, until his eyes finally rested on Crowley.

Dean breathed in and out slowly. The action felt strange. Unnecessary, somehow. "Hello, Dean," Crowley said in his gruff voice. Its low bass sound seemed to reverberate throughout the room. He realized it was because of his new hearing.

"Crowley," Dean said. He raised his hands and, glaring into every wrinkle and poor of the dirtied skin. He then shifted his gaze to the blade, soaking in the yellowed jawbone lined with jagged, broken teeth. "What did you do to me?" His voice was hoarse. It tasted raw and bloody.

"I didn't do anything," Crowley said. "This was all you, mate. Well," Crowley glanced down at the bone in Dean's hand, nearly as transfixed as Dean was. "You and the First Blade," he said.

"I don't understand," Dean said. His tongue felt numb. Crowley stepped aside as he climbed off of the bed. He looked around, his head moving with the same sharpness as an insect's. "Where's Sam?" he asked. He tried to feel concerned for his little brother, but somehow, the feeling wouldn't come up.

"Just in the other room." Crowley nodded his head to the back wall. He stared at Dean warily, like he was a bomb that might go off at any moment. "What do you want to do?"

"I should go to him," Dean said quietly. Again, the words felt hollow. Something about that was disconcerting. Shouldn't he care? Dean frowned and walked over to the wall, gently resting his fingers against it, followed by his ear. He could hear Sam in there, loud, as if he were standing right next to him. He was breathing heavily, in shuddering gasps. Was he…crying? Dean stepped back from the wall. Why didn't that bother him?

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Crowley asked, pulling Dean from his thoughts.

"He's my brother," he said uncertainly. Everything felt strange. The words coming out of his mouth were alien, so tiny and foreign. It was like he shouldn't even be saying them. "I love him."

"Do you?" Crowley took a step forward. "Think, Dean. Take a moment and think. What does Sam really mean to you? How do you feel?"

Dean looked down. "I feel…different," he said.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Well don't get too dirty with the details," he grumbled. He sighed impatiently. "Do you even know what you are, Dean. Concentrate."

A few painful seconds ticked by. Dean stared at his hands again. Tiny wisps of black oozed out of his pores, dissolving into the air a few centimeters from the surface of the skin. The same coils of energy seemed to be seeping from Crowley, except they were deep and vibrant crimson. "Am I a demon?" he asked.

"Well, at least you finally figured that one out," Crowley said. He rubbed his forehead impatiently. "Now that that's out of the way, let's get down to business. We don't have a lot of time, Dean. Do you want to stay or go?"

"Does Sam know?" Dean looked up at Crowley.

He was annoyed then. "What do you thing, moron? Of course he doesn't know," he said, "but he comes in here and finds you gone, then that might give him a clue." He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. "But then again, you Winchesters aren't exactly known for your quick wit." He stepped close to Dean. "Now is a perfect example of that. Dean, you there is a lot you need to know," he whispered. "We need to go."

Dean breathed in again. Crowley smelled…nervous. "You're right," Dean said. "I don't know anything about being a demon. All this is new territory. There _is_ a lot I need to know. And I'll learn it all."

Faster than blinking. He grabbed Crowley by the collar and pinned him against the wall. The mark on his arm burned furiously, throbbing with a delicious heat. "Just not from you."

Crowley's eyes were wide and fearful. "What are you, crazy?" he cried frantically. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Something I should've done years ago," Dean growled. He shoved the Blade into Crowley's stomach just as he started to smoke out. The red plumes faltered and faded into the air. Fiery orange light burst from his mouth and eyes. A bloodcurdling scream split the air for what seemed like an eternity.

But it only lasted seconds, and then Crowley lifeless form slumped against Dean's grip, it's eyes nothing but blackened pits.


End file.
